


Under pressure

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea dislikes Mycroft breaking his schedule, Crime Scenes, M/M, Manipulation, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft's Umbrella, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Restraints, Sexual Content, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Mycroft is a confident man who knows how to get what he wants in life. Sometimes that talent coincides with Sherlock's wishes as well. This is not necessarily one of those times.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 26
Kudos: 30





	Under pressure

Mycroft looks down at the unmoving body at his feet, relieved that it didn’t make the nuisance of falling like an obstacle in front of the door he is about to enter. With these insidious cretins running the place it would not have surprised him if they remained bothersome even after being incapacitated.

Turning the handle he allows the door to quietly open and reveal the expected tableau inside, supressing an audible sigh at the lack of imagination among the criminal classes when his eyes lock on to the two people occupying the room. One of them is draped across a table, arms and legs tied to prevent any attempts of resistance, shirt already torn to pieces by the knife that is now being pressed to one of his sharp cheekbones by the other individual in the room, a brutish man largely made of flesh and fat, no redeeming features to boast of, at the moment occupied with the desire to rape and then stab Mycroft’s little brother, not necessarily in that particular order.

Quietly Mycroft enters the room, his eyes on Sherlock who is still staring at his assailant even if he’s surely become aware of the intrusion by now. He is after all very astute to noticing things, even when occupied by more pressing matters such as having the edge of a knife trailing along his cheek while his attacker is hissing threats in his face. 

The twitch of the bridge of Sherlock’s nose tells Mycroft that the attacker is more bothersome on account of his bad breath than of his intentions to violate his victim.

There is something deliciously enticing about seeing Sherlock tied down, helpless, spread out invitingly across that table, the soft pale skin of his chest exposed, dark curls tussled in sweaty disarray. 

Mycroft can’t deny the appeal even if he strongly disapproves of the man who thinks he is about to take advantage of his victim’s vulnerable state.

_Really,_ as if Mycroft would ever willingly allow anyone to sample what is so decidedly his. Pedestrian people and their foolish ideas...

A second before the knife wielding brute becomes aware of his presence, Mycroft clears his throat to draw attention to himself. He isn’t particularly pleased with the idea of someone else trying to mark his little brother, the situation requires him to put an end to it before the man gets any further with his endeavours.

“Forgive my intrusion but I believe the game is over now, despite all the bother you’ve gone through to tie that little brat so thoroughly to your desk. Believe me, I completely understand the inclination, although I usually make the habit of muzzling him as well. That mouth of his does have a tendency to otherwise yap incessantly which I find does quite ruin the mood. But each to his own of course.”

The brute’s head snaps in his direction immediately, his eyes bulging in surprise, an array of questions crossing his fleshy lips, _who the hell are you is, how did you get past the man at the door, what are you doing here etc_. 

Sherlock naturally, like the insolent little nuisance that he is, does not even bother to turn his head to meet his brother’s eyes. If anything, he still wears that expression of slight boredom that was there even before Mycroft decided to put an end to the situation in the room. 

Sherlock looks like he is seconds away from one of his histrionic eye rolls and Mycroft can’t help but allow his lips to twitch in amusement, because isn’t it convenient how Sherlock is tied down so thoroughly that he won’t be able to put up any resistance when Mycroft is finished with the assailant and will turn his attention to the more significant person in the room.

The atrocious specimen of a man that is still standing between Mycroft and his little brother has now risen from his position above his victim and is about to lash out with that knife of his quite viciously. 

Without hesitation Mycroft raises his umbrella while his index finger lightly presses the button required to unleash a shot straight through the man’s odious features.   
It almost improves his appearance a little despite the gore that inevitably splatters across the floor and it certainly puts a stop to any further verbal insults that Mycroft had no interest in listening to in the first place. 

With a thump down on the carpet the man falls, his eyes still staring at Mycroft, lifeless and no longer of any significance to anyone present. His hand is still firmly holding his knife, as if he believed himself to get the chance to put it to good use. 

_Pathetic._

Mycroft steps forward and uses the tip of his umbrella to push the lifeless lump sideways so he can position himself in front of his brother, conveniently between those spread legs that so invitingly offer themselves up to intrusion. 

Mycroft looks down at Sherlock and the smile that was only a twitch earlier now grows larger as he takes in the sight in front of him.

“My my, you’ve got yourself in quite a predicament this time, little brother.”

“I was having it perfectly under control,” Sherlock drawls, without letting so much as a hint of concern taint his voice.

“Really? Because to me it looks like you were seconds away from being raped quite forcefully by Mr..."

He raises his eyebrows in a query.

“Mr Phelps,” Sherlock helpfully provides him.

“...by Mr Phelps.”

Mycroft tilts his head a little to the side as he continues to look down at the spread-out body in front of him. In a tone of admonishment he then says:

“You know I’m not inclined to share with others what is rightfully mine.”

Sherlock looks at him, a glimmer of something dark flashing in his eyes, but he stays silent, allowing Mycroft to get to the point without interruption.

“Although I’m naturally most cross with the late Mr Phelps of course, I can’t help but put at least some of the blame on you, little brother. You should know by now that I find the idea of another person’s hands on my property frankly abysmal and for you to repeatedly put yourself in situations like these...It’s almost as if you are trying to provoke me on purpose...” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and there is the hint of a feral smile on his lips now.

“...How presumptuous of you to believe that everything I do is related to you,” he says, baring his teeth. “I was hardly looking forward to the indelicate thrusts of this idiot between my legs. But naturally I would have managed just fine without your assistance, I always do. Like I said, I was having it under control.”

Mycroft shakes his head at this.

“By sending away your watchdog to do locum work, Scotland Yard being at the other end of town and your phone left behind on the sofa back home when meeting up with a man who has a staggering number of killings on his resume, unarmed to make the situation even more precarious. To me that does not indicate control in any shape or form.”

“And yet, here I am, completely unharmed.”

Sherlock flashes him a wicked smile and Mycroft basks in the radiance of it for a second, allowing the sensation to tingle his senses before he turns steely once more. 

“Such disobedience needs to be punished of course. I have such a pressing schedule as it is, coming here to save you from yet another one of your hazardous adventures was hardly appreciated by Anthea either who has put a lot of hard work and effort into organizing my daily agenda. I’m afraid you’ll need to make it up somehow, my dear, we are both quite cross with you at the moment.”

He turns his eyes to the limp body on the floor.

“When she hears about the bother of disposing of a dead body, it will hardly sweeten her mood.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“One body? What about the one outside?”

“Merely sedated.”

Mycroft is not going to admit to his brother that a slip of the finger caused him to press the button to the left instead of the right, there is no need to feed Sherlock with any more fodder for ridicule. Especially not now.

“We need one of them to be able to inform the rest of their associates that you are off limits, one dead body is quite enough, no need to kill them both,” Mycroft smoothly point out, avoiding the glint of suspicion that for a second crosses his brother’s features. 

He changes the topic to divert any further questioning. 

“As I believe I just pointed out, we are on a tight schedule. Luckily Mr Phelps had the good sense to at least present you to me in a most convenient fashion. All tied down and unable to move...”

He can feel his mouth turn into a wolfish grin. Without having a mirror to confirm his suspicions he knows he looks quite predatory and predictably Sherlock’s attention sways from any further inquiries about Mycroft’s methods of harming his opponents. 

“...As I informed Mr Phelps earlier, I prefer the use of a muzzle to prevent insolent brats to voice their opinions while disciplining them, but I’m sure you can bother to behave at least this once, brother dear.”

With that he leans forward and with a swift movement, surprisingly swift considering that it is Mycroft who normally moves with a more restrained pace, he rips the remaining shreds of Sherlock’s shirt off and splays his large hand across the smooth plane of his brother’s chest, savouring the velvety feel.

Mr Phelps did not get the opportunity to invoke any harm upon the body that Mycroft considers to be his, there is only a bit of chafing on the skin where the wrists and ankles are bound by rope, but beyond that there isn’t even the hint of a bruise visible.

That is surprising considering that Sherlock is quite a good fighter and usually doesn’t end up helplessly tied to a table with spread legs and arms. 

Choosing to not point out this observation, Mycroft puts his focus on the task in front of him instead, admonishments of the other variety can be handed out later. 

With languid movements his fingers glide across the exposed skin while his other hand leans the umbrella against the table so he can use both hands freely.  
When reaching the hem of Sherlock’s expensively tailored trousers he can feel the prickle of anticipation but does not allow that to manifest upon his features just yet. A steely exterior and total control is the key here.

“I believe Mr Phelps fancied himself to take liberties with your bodily gifts and not just stab you to death like he did with his previous victims.”

He deftly opens the top button and then allows the zipper below to slide down to reveal the unsurprising fact that his brother opted to not wear anything beneath today.

“And by the looks of it, you were quite willing to allow him that favour,“ he sourly concludes.

“Hardly...”Sherlock hisses but a stern look from Mycroft silences him from making any further comments.

“Not wearing any underwear? That’s like handing the man an open invitation to explore to his heart’s content,” Mycroft tuts curtly.

“I assure you I did not have _him_ in mind this morning when I opted to forego my pants.”

Mycroft hums approvingly, ignoring the slight prickle of worry that Sherlock might be thinking of John Watson instead of him. He has as of yet not seen any actual proof to warrant any true concern regarding the flatmate situation in Baker Street. Sherlock has even had the audacity to laugh in his face when asked about it.   
Which of course doesn’t prove anything, Sherlock is and always was a perpetual liar. 

But as long as his surveillance team assures him that the relationship between his younger brother and the army doctor is nothing more than a very intense friendship, Mycroft won’t allow his jealousy to make an appearance.

Mycroft yanks the trousers down to Sherlock’s ankles and then reaches out to touch his cock, not fully erect yet but assuredly on its way to flesh out. He is aware that his hands are a bit cold despite wearing gloves, it is November after all and the forecast promised a particularly crisp afternoon. 

Sherlock instinctively yelps from the cold touch and even tries to jerk away, but Mycroft is having none of that, forcefully pressing down the other man’s pelvis while grabbing a firmer hold around his cock.

He makes a silencing gesture with his fingers against his lips but does not look at Sherlock’s face to make sure that they are still moving towards the same end game.   
This isn’t the first time they have done this and it won’t be the last either, but it always feels like trying to navigate a minefield, one wrong move and it could blow up in their faces. 

He moves his fingers skilfully up and down his brother’s swollen shaft and finally turns his gaze so it connects with Sherlock’s catlike eyes. As expected they are difficult to read, hazy with lust but there is something else in them as well, something indiscernible that Mycroft can’t decipher. 

It doesn’t matter, he isn’t here to study his brother’s mercurial moods, he is here to finish what he came for and then make it back to the Prime Minister who he knows is expecting his presence within the next 30 minutes. In Pall Mall no less, and Mycroft is currently residing in a flat on the other side of town. Leave it to the criminal classes to never accommodate him with better lodgings when he wants to meet up with his brother.

He hates to rush things but needs must when he is working on a schedule. 

Releasing the swollen cock that immediately bobs back against Sherlock’s flat stomach, Mycroft removes his gloves and then produces a small bottle from the inside of his coat. 

He covers his fingers with a colourless treacle that he pours from the bottle, then rubbing them together so they won’t feel so cold when doing what he has in mind for his brother.

It is surprisingly quiet in the room, there is only the soft gasp eliciting from Sherlock’s lips when Mycroft inserts two fingers simultaneously into his tight hole, not bothering with being gentle this time. 

Sherlock doesn’t mind the roughness, he knows Mycroft would do anything for him, accommodate his every need and Sherlock is also aware that his older brother is in a hurry to get back to work but still made the necessary detour to be here, so he plays nice and takes what he is offered like a good boy.

Mycroft compliments him for it, whispering sweet words into the space between them while he works in a third finger, earning him a loud moan that shatters the silence in the room. 

“For such a wicked boy you’re being exceptionally pliant right now, little brother.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, his back arching as Mycroft fingers fall into a rhythm of hitting his prostate and his eyes widening from the deliciously tortuous sensation. He tries working against his restraints of the ropes holding him in place but Mycroft is merciless, increasing the pace, allowing his brother no option to catch his breath from the onslaught of sensations that pulsates through his body from within. 

There is a wanton expression on Sherlock’s face as he buckles up against Mycroft rapid movements, Mycroft savours the look of it, his brother so seldom allows himself to unravel in front of others like this. Mycroft sincerely hopes he is the only one allowed to witness this privilege. 

When he removes his fingers there is disappointed whine and Mycroft tuts disapprovingly.

“Always so eager...” he mumbles as he works his fingers around the buttons of his own trousers this time, even more expensive than his brother’s pair, bespoke and pristine, not suitable to stain the way his slick fingers manage to do, but there is nothing he can do about that now.

He pulls his trousers as well as his pants down, they pool around his ankles as he strokes his own swollen cock, his fingers tracing the precum leaking from his slit.   
He tries to not think of the mess this is going to do to his wardrobe, if he was more interested in his appearance he wouldn’t be here. But he can picture the look of disapproval in Anthea’s eyes when she will be forced to produce a new crisp suit for him to slip into before meeting with the Prime Minister. Not that _he_ will have bothered with an impeccable appearance, the man has an affinity for ill-fitting suits and garish ties, but Mycroft wont stoop to his poor level of dress.

Without further ado he pushes his cock deep into his brother’s tight hole and feels the muscles inside pulsating around it, Sherlock’s knuckles turning white as he presses his fingernails into his palms.

He wishes he could savour this image a little longer but there simply is no time, he will have to be in the car within the next ten minutes at the most. Time to pick up the pace.

Luckily his body is attuned to the tight time schedule and Sherlock seems to be on the brink of unravelling already, so without any further ado he resumes what his fingers had already started, falling into a steady but somewhat forceful rhythm, pumping into his brother’s pliable body, grunting somewhat inelegantly but ignoring it in favour of the sensation of being deeply buried, cock-deep into the only person he has ever wanted to do this with.

Sherlock’s arms strain against their confinement, he tries to buckle up against Mycroft but doesn’t quite manage it and he growls in frustration, to Mycroft’s utter delight. 

He loves his brother trapped like this, helpless, under the mercy of Mycroft’s wants and needs. It is so seldom he gets to savour him like this, most times Sherlock is like a hurricane sweeping through a landscape of chaos. Like this, he is forced to abide to the decisions of someone else. 

Mycroft can feel the cusp of his orgasm hitting him like a tidal wave a second before he succumbs to the actual wave, the one that renders him senseless, crashing through the sensation of coming hard inside his brother’s body, aware of his own voice crying out from pure pleasure while his hands dig into the softness of his brother’s skin, bruising the paleness, marking him the way Mr Phelps failed to do earlier.

He collapses onto the body beneath him, trying to catch his breath, his eyes closed but every nerve ending feeling like they are exposed to the stimulation of post coital waves running like current through his body.

He is brought back to the present by Sherlock hissing at him to get off, that he’s being suffocated by Mycroft’s supressing body weight. 

He is clearly disgruntled because Mycroft might have satisfied his own needs but Sherlock has so far only been brought to the brink of the edge but not carried across it. His cock is achingly hard and angrily red, it looks quite painful in its predicament and it is therefor no wonder that ire is flashing in his eyes. 

Because realisation is beginning to dawn on him that Mycroft might not be willing to take care of _his_ needs. Not now when he is already running late.   
It isn’t necessary to clarify the situation by confirming Sherlock’s suspicions, so Mycroft simply withdraws, secure in the knowledge that Sherlock can’t do anything to stop him. Mr Phelps did a wonderful job tying him up after all.

He produces a handkerchief from his pocket and cleans himself up with the limited methods available to him. Then he pulls up his pants as well as his trousers and tucks his shirt in, buttons up and allows his hand to run along the front to smooth out some of the creases in the fabric.

“You’re seriously leaving?” he hears Sherlock seethe in the background, venomous tone in his voice, anger rising, his limbs trashing against the ropes now quite fiercely. 

If he was free Mycroft might worry a bit, but as the situation is, he can afford to turn his back on his brother to finish arranging his appearance, pulling his gloves on and procuring his umbrella. 

Then he finally turns to give Sherlock his full attention.

“I certainly hope you learned your lesson little brother. Think it through next time you decide to get yourself trapped like this with no way of freeing yourself when things don’t go to your liking.” 

Sherlock’s eyes go wide with bafflement, it looks like he is about to choke from sheer disbelief but Mycroft bravely soldiers on as if unconcerned about his brother’s predicament. 

“I’ll send someone to free you as soon as I can, but now I really must be going, the Prime Minister is waiting and I know traffic at this hour is bound to be brutal.”

“If you leave now...” Sherlock begins but the rest of the sentence is cut short by the door closing behind Mycroft’s back. 

As he descends the stairs he can hear his name being called out in rage but he doesn’t stop, perfectly aware that the clock is ticking and he needs to give Anthea a call about that extra suit for him to change into before he enters the meeting. 

Outside he nods in the direction of one of his agents who has been standing guard outside the building and the man swiftly approaches him, following him to the parked car, ready for his boss’s next command.

“Wait here another fifteen minutes, there is a situation still taking place within the building that needs to calm down. Then enter the room furthest to the left on the second floor and assist my brother with his predicament, I believe there might be some restraints that needs to be loosened. No need to be armed when you enter the room but make sure that you don’t leave any fingerprints on the scene. You can ignore the unconscious man in the hall but see to it that the man inside the room will be disposed of as swiftly as possible. Call my assistant about further instructions.”

“Very well, Sir.”

Fifteen minutes is sufficient time for Mycroft to be able to put enough distance between himself and his brother. Not that it will help him in the long run, but for now, he is secure in the knowledge that Sherlock is precisely where he has left him.

The hint of a smile plays on his lips as he recalls his brother’s angry glare.

_Lesson learned indeed_ he thinks smugly as he seats himself comfortably in the backseat of the car and orders his driver to start the engine. A tingle of anticipation flushes his skin when he thinks about how his brother is going to repay him next time they meet and the smile on his lips is still slightly visible when the car pulls up to the curb outside the building in Pall Mall where the Prime Minister is impatiently awaiting his arrival.


End file.
